


Onychophilia

by Musyc



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Cedric Diggory - character, Community: erotic_elves, Crossgen, F/M, Fetish, Fingernails, Rita Skeeter - character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-27
Updated: 2009-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:36:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musyc/pseuds/Musyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cedric has a liking he can't explain; Rita understands it without any explanation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Onychophilia

He'd always had a fondness for an older woman. He'd known it for years - when he once visited Hannah and caught her mother having her tea at sunrise in nothing but a soft shirt that barely covered her hips; when Rosmerta's low voice, velvet with decades of a smoky bar, caught his attention every time he walked in. It had nothing to do with the tight blond curls that tempted him to tug on them just to see if they'd bounce in the air, nothing to do with the way her hair gleamed when she moved in the sunshine. It had nothing to do with the slight crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, or the deep laugh lines at the corners of her mouth, marks of a lifetime spent in her own amusements and glee. That wasn't what had caught his attention.

It was the nails.

Those long, red-painted nails that his housemates mocked quietly, drawing their fingers up in claws and pretending to scratch out each other's eyes. He grinned at the shrieks of teasing in the common room, gave amused glances to his friends when they made taunts about talons, but when he slipped off into the prefects' bath or shut his bedcurtains at night, he wrapped his hand around his cock, closed his eyes, and with every stroke pictured those nails dragging down his cheek, leaving a daintily-welted trail down his chest. The more times he saw her at the castle, the more Silencing charms he had to cast after curfew, and weeks before the second task was even scheduled, he was already so proficient at it that he could cast it both silently and wandlessly.

He'd thought he was handling it well, thought he was dealing with it just fine, and then she swept into Madame Puddifoot's while he was on a date with Cho, and he lost track of Cho's conversation almost immediately. When she crowed with delight at seeing one of the Champions in a - as she almost shouted it - 'romantic, intimate moment to break the tension of peril and hazards', she reached out and clutched his chin, shaking his head gently. He gasped, jumped, his knees hitting the underneath of the table and knocking over the sugar bowl, his trousers tightening quickly enough that he bit his lip to stop a pained whimper. She looked him full in the face, then, one arched eyebrow lifting, and her delighted, knowing laugh was still echoing in his ears after she'd left and Cho was dabbing at the parallel scrapes on his cheek with the soggy corner of a handkerchief.

It didn't even come as a surprise to him when he got the note three days later, a note with a date, a time, a location, but no signature. Instead, there was a smudge of brilliant red at the bottom of the page, a streak on the parchment that shimmered in candlelight, and that night he held the note pressed to his upper lip, panting breaths trapped in the crumpled parchment as he dragged his own short and bitten nails along the underside of his cock.

Deciding whether to go in answer to the note or whether to hide under a desk for the remainder of the tournament distracted him for the next week, a state easily - and silently, gratefully - blamed on concentration and work on the next task. His distraction only elevated when he met Cho in the greenhouse to repot a Screechsnap and her usual primly-pink nails were a deep and wine-dark burgundy. Laughing through her explanation of friends, giggles, amusement, and teasing, Cho didn't notice his widened eyes and rushing breath until he pinned her against the table and kissed her so hard her teeth knocked against his. She drew back to slap him with a surprised yelp, rushed out before his cheek could even turn red.

He sent a note that night. _Off the record?_

The response was immediate. _Yes._

\---

He Apparated to a small town in the north of England, outside a pub with the sign of a bullfrog wearing a waistcoat and spectacles. He slunk inside with the hood of his cloak up to shadow his face, straight up the side stairs and to a door halfway down the corridor. When he knocked, his hand was shaking, and the quiet invitation to enter made his breath catch in his throat. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it, hands clenched together at the small of his back. "Off the record, right?" he asked, tipping his head to slide his hood off.

"Of course, dear. I'm a lot of things, but indiscreet isn't one of them." She laughed, rising from a chair and moving forward to dangle a small bottle, the color as red as the blush he knew was on his cheek, in front of his nose. "At least not on this particular subject. Never reveal your sources _or_ your playmates, if you want to see them again."

Eyes focused on the polish, on the bare pink sheen of her nails, he swallowed hard. "Playmate. Um. Miss Skeeter, tha--"

"I think you can call me Rita, dear." She reached behind him, sliding her fingers across his hip and along his forearm, tapping her nails on his wrist and tugging his hand forward while he gulped for a breath. She pressed the bottle into his palm, wrapped his fingers around it, and lifted her hand to draw the point of one nail under his bottom lip. "Ever done this before?"

He shook his head wildly, unsure of what question she was _really_ asking, but negative on any of the possibilities. Her laugh stirred the tips of his hair, and she tapped his nose, smiling, before returning to her chair and sitting with both hands out, fingers spread. Fingers tightening around the bottle in his hand, he wet his lips and stared at her until the slight impatient waggle of her fingers brought him across the room in a barely restrained lunge, his cloak falling to the floor. He drew a footstool up and sat directly in front of her, his legs on either side of hers, knees touching knees. He opened the bottle and drew the tiny brush out slowly, wiping excess color onto the lip with delicate care, but he was forced to look up at her in confusion when one hand held the brush, one held the bottle, and he was out of hands to hold _her_ hand.

She laughed again and ruffled his hair, scratched behind his ear and along his jawline to make him shiver, before she took the bottle and held it positioned in easy reach. Her free hand settled in his, palm to palm, the point of her longest nails just touching the thin, blue-veined skin at his wrist. He swallowed audibly, his Adam's apple rising and falling in his throat, his cheeks heating and deepening their red tinge when she smiled and twitched one fingernail over his arm. Bending over her hand, he drew the brush shakily from cuticle to tip, starting at her left pinky. The color dried quickly as he worked, each nail shimmering almost before he'd moved on to the next.

By the time he finished carefully, delicately painting, he was hard, pressed tight and uncomfortable against his zip. He shifted on the footstool, his legs rubbing against hers, trying not to obviously rock his hips in an attempt to get himself into a more comfortable position. Beneath her outstretched hands, her long nails that hovered over his trembling fingers as he capped the bottle and set it aside, she moved her feet and slid off her shoes. One foot drew up, instep resting on the edge of his seat, and he held his breath as she curled her toes, arched and stretched, and stopped with the ball of her foot resting firmly against him, her toes pushing at the fabric of his trousers and spread around the base of his twitching cock.

He froze, jaw trembling and eyes shut tight, the heat of his embarrassed flush moving down from his cheeks and over his neck, slithering across his shoulders and chest. "It's quite all right, Cedric," he heard her murmur, and his cock twitched again when she added the slightest bit of pressure. He squeezed his eyes even tighter, muttering under his breath something that could have been apology, could have been nonsense, could have been pleading, but then he heard the chair squeak and felt one nail draw up his throat and under his jaw to rest at the point of his chin, and his mutter twisted into a stuttering gasp when his cock jumped and pulsed and he came.

Scooting back on the stool, he pressed his thighs together and hunched over himself, staring at the floor as he wished desperately for it to swallow him whole. Over his head, he heard that same knowing laugh, and his cheeks flared even hotter, his eyes squeezed shut to stop them from watering. "You _are_ new to this," she said, and the points of her long nails rested under his chin, lifting his head. She traced the line of his bottom lip, tapped at the corner of his mouth. "You know, dear, there's nothing to be embarrassed about. Certainly not the first young man in my experience to be interested in these." She fluttered her nails against his cheek and he opened his eyes, looking up to her smile.

"It's ... it's not _normal_," he said, blinking rapidly through his humiliation. "Not supposed to be something a fellow finds a _turn-on_. Is it?" The question was hopeful, pleading, without his realizing it, and he watched her eyes carefully.

She traced the top of his cheekbones, drew around the curve of his ear. "Let me guess, your friends are more traditional?" Clearing her throat, she dropped the pitch of her voice, her accent shifting. "No, it's the tits, mate. No, it's the arse. Gotta be the legs, get _those_ wrapped around you."

Cedric bit his lip at the rather accurate imitation of locker room chat and late-night dormitory talks. "Well ... yes."

"Not very creative, is it? With all the number of body parts on a woman, from eyes to hair to breasts to thighs, you have to ask if _fingernails_ are something that's all right to be aroused by?" She made a soft clucking noise and took his hands as she stood, tugging him up with her. "If you're not hurting anyone, and _you_ like it, what's the problem?"

He shook his head, following her movements as she reached to the side table and took up her wand, blushing again despite himself when she passed the tip over the front of his trousers and dried the material. "I don't know." He wasn't even certain he'd spoken aloud.

"You'll learn, when you're a little older, that you'll get much more satisfaction if you concentrate on your own excitements, rather than what everyone else tells you that you should think." She examined her nails with a critical eye, scraped off one knuckle a dot of color where his hand had shook too much. "Not a bad job," she said, and touched his cheek again, pressing into his flesh just enough that he could feel the arch of each point and a shudder rolled down his spine. "You've earned a bit of a reward, I'd say."

She had to stretch up on her toes to wrap her hands around the back of his head, her lips slightly parted. He took a deep breath, started to kiss her, but her nails scratched across his nape and he bent to her with a shiver, burying his face in the curve of her neck and locking his fingers on her hips. She laughed again, the smallest touch of triumph in her voice, and before he realized it, she had three buttons on his shirt undone and her hand was against his chest, her nails tracing down his sternum. The muscles in his abdomen tightened when she trailed over his stomach, and he hissed softly when she jerked his shirt free of his trousers and drew the very tip of one nail from navel to zip.

Cedric's hands tensed and tightened on her waist, blood rushing to his cock quickly enough to make his head hurt. "Please?" His voice was a mutter and a desperate request, and she hooked her fingers into his waistband and tugged him to the bed. His shirt got caught on his elbows, his trousers hooked on his shoes, but he was flat on his back and she was straddling his thighs with her nails tracing down his hips, and he barely noticed that or his wand digging into his calf. There was a long and aching moment of absolute calm, and then the silence broke with his rough gasp when she dragged her fingers down his chest and her nails scraped over his nipples.

She played with him, tormented him, traced lines in his skin. Around the curve of his ribs, into the hollow of his hip, along the tensed muscles in his abdomen. Scraping and scratching, light touches that he barely sensed, deep pressure that he could feel leaving welts behind. She teased and promised with each pointed tip, until he was arching under her and begging, and she stroked her fingers up the bottom of his cock, ran one nail around the head. She wrapped one hand around him, placed the other lower and around the base, and her nails poked and pricked at him from shaft to ridge to scrotum and back again until he groaned, bucked, and came with a grunt.

Several near-pained spasms and several seconds later, and he was able to gather his thoughts enough to push up onto his elbows and mutter a fervent and embarrassed apology as he watched her delicately rub thin, white strands off her wrist, fingers, and the red of her nails. "Lovely, dear," she murmured, reaching up to tap him on the nose and scratch under his chin, her smile wide and pointed. "Just lovely. More?"

"_Please_."


End file.
